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    Sentry of the Sky
    Sentry of the Sky
    Sentry of the Sky
    Ebook81 pages1 hour

    Sentry of the Sky

    By Evelyn E. Smith

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    There had to be a way for Sub-Archivist Clarey to get up in the world—but this way was right out of the tri-di dramas. Interstellar intrigue t its finest!

    Evelyn E. Smith is best known as the author of the Miss Melville mysteries. From 1952 to 1969 she wrote dozens of science fiction and fantasy short stories that appeared in magazines such as The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Galaxy, Super Science Fiction, and Fantastic Universe. Her stories were witty, well written, often humorous, and always unforgettable.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWilder Publications, Inc.
    Release dateApr 20, 2021
    ISBN9781515450658
    Sentry of the Sky
    Author

    Evelyn E. Smith

    Evelyn E. Smith (25 July 1922 – 4 July 2000) was an American writer of science fiction and mysteries, as well as a compiler of crossword puzzles.

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      Book preview

      Sentry of the Sky - Evelyn E. Smith

      Sentry of the Sky

      by Evelyn E. Smith

      ©2021 Positronic Publishing

      Sentry of the Sky is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales or institutions is entirely coincidental.

      All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except for brief quotations for review purposes only.

      Hardcover ISBN 13: 978-1-5154-5063-4

      Trade Paperback ISBN 13: 978-1-5154-5064-1

      E-book ISBN 13: 978-1-5154-5065-8

      Sentry of the Sky

      There had to be a way for Sub-Archivist Clarey to get up in the world—but this way was right out of the tri-di dramas.

      Clarey had checked in at Classification Center so many times that he came now more out of habit than hope. He didn’t even look at the card that the test machine dropped into his hand until he was almost to the portway. And then he stopped. Report to Room 33 for reclassification, it said.

      Ten years before, Clarey would have been ecstatic, sure that reclassification could be only in one direction. The machine had not originally given him a job commensurate with his talents; why should it suddenly recognize them? He’d known of people who had been reclassified—always downward. I’m a perfectly competent Sub-Archivist, he told himself; I’ll fight.

      But he knew fighting wouldn’t help. All he had was the right to refuse any job he could claim was not in his line; the government would then be obligated to continue his existence. There were many people who did subsist on the government dole: the aged and the deficient and the defective—and creative artists who refused to trammel their spirits and chose to be ranked as Unemployables. Clarey didn’t fit into those categories.

      Dispiritedly, he passed along innumerable winding corridors and up and down ramps that twisted and turned to lead into other ramps and corridors. That was the way all public buildings were designed. It was forbidden for the government to make any law-abiding individual think the way it wanted him to think. But it could move him in any direction it chose, and sometimes that served its purpose as well as the reorientation machines.

      So the corridors he passed through were in constant eddying movement, with a variety of individuals bent on a variety of objectives. For the most part, they were of Low Echelon status, though occasionally an Upper Echelon flashed his peremptory way past. Even though most L-Es attempted to ape the U-E dress and manner, you could always tell the difference. You could tell the difference among the different levels of L-E, too—and there was no mistaking the Unemployables in their sober gray habits, devoid of ornament. It was, Clarey sometimes thought when guilt feelings bothered him, the most esthetic of costumes.

      *

      The machine in Room 33 extracted whatever information it was set to receive, then spewed Clarey out and sent him on his way to Rooms 34, 35, and 36, where other machines repeated the same process. Room 37 proved to be that rare thing in the hierarchy of rooms—a destination. There was a human Employment Commissioner in it, splendidly garbed in crimson silvet and alexandrites—very Upper Echelon, indeed. He wore a gold mask, a common practice with celebrities who were afraid of being overwhelmed by their admirers, an even more common practice with U-E non-celebrities who enjoyed the thrill of distinguished anonymity.

      Then Clarey stopped looking at the Commissioner. There was a girl sitting next to him, on a high-backed chair like his. Clarey had never seen a U-E girl so close before. Only the Greater Archivists had direct contact with the public, and Clarey wasn’t likely to meet a U-E socially, even if he’d had a social life. The girl was too fabulous for him to think of her as a woman, a female; but he would have liked to have her in his archives, in the glass case with the rare editions.

      Good morning, Sub-Archivist Clarey, the man said mellowly. Good of you to come in. There’s rather an unusual position open and the machines tell us you’re the one man who can fill it. Please sit down. He indicated a small, hard stool.

      Clarey remained standing. I’ve been a perfectly competent Sub-Archivist, he declared. If MacFingal has—if there have been any complaints, I should have been told first.

      There have been no complaints. The reclassification is upward.

      You mean I’ve made it as a Musician! Clarey cried, sinking to the hard little stool in joyful atony.

      Well, no, not exactly a Musician. But it’s a highly artistic type of job with possible musical overtones.

      Clarey became a hollow man once more. No matter what it was, if it wasn’t as duly accredited Musician, it didn’t matter. The machine could keep him from putting his symphonies down on tape, but it couldn’t keep them from coursing in his head. That it could never take away from him. Or the resultant headache, either.

      What is the job, then? he asked dully.

      A very important position, Sub-Archivist. In fact, the future welfare of this planet may depend on it.

      It’s a trick to make me take a job nobody else wants, Clarey sneered. And it must be a pretty rotten job for you to go to so much trouble.

      The girl, whom he’d almost forgotten, gave a little laugh. Her eyes, he noticed, were hazel. There were L-E girls, he supposed, who also had hazel eyes—but a different hazel.

      *

      Perhaps this will convince you of the job’s significance, the interviewer said huffily. He took off his mask and looked at Clarey with anticipation. He had a sleek, ordinary, middle-aged-to-elderly face.

      There was an awkward interval. Don’t you recognize me? he demanded.

      Clarey shook his head. The girl laughed again.

      A blow to my ego, but proof that you’re the right man for this job. I’m General Spano. And this is my Mistress, Secretary Han Vollard.

      The girl inclined her head.

      "At least

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